


The Crossroads

by byebyeskylark



Series: City Limits [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst mostly, Gen, light demonic activity, vaguely spooky?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9172723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byebyeskylark/pseuds/byebyeskylark
Summary: Gotham's urban legends aren't always toothless stories.





	1. The Crossroads

Gotham has an unremarkable intersection at Madison and Bay Drive. It’s about a mile away from one of the sports stadiums, so it gets a fair amount of traffic on any given day, due to games or concerts. But there isn’t much else around it, just empty overflow stadium parking and some anemic looking parkway trees. Because it lies between the stadium and a nearby train station it also gets foot traffic.

A few years into beating crime into submission Bruce notices that certain people in the city have started calling this intersection The Crossroads. The first time he hears it he’s eavesdropping on a few homeless men who mention it in passing, like its a landmark. 

“Yeah, you’ll find some good spots to camp down by the viaduct that’s east of The Crossroads.”

The men don’t talk about the drug dealer Bruce was hoping to hear about, desperate for a lead, and he moves to another roof top to look down into another alley, thinking nothing else about The Crossroads until a few years later at a lunch meeting. 

The businessman he’s trying to avoid making a deal with is trying to invite Bruce to leer with him at their waitress, but Bruce keeps his eyes on his menu, listening in on the conversation the two Vietnamese women are having next to him, one telling the other, wide-eyed, a story of the Demon at The Crossroads, who offers impossible deals to passersby who inevitably regret it. He suppresses a smile at the urban legend but files the nickname away. He turns his attention to his not-business partner and ups the charm in order to get the nuggets he needs to dismantle the illegal research operation the idiot’s company is running.

More than a decade later he’s having a surprisingly entertaining night at home. He’d invited Jason Blood to a family dinner and was enjoying the rapt attention and even (in Tim’s case) open-mouthed astonishment his kids were paying to the ancient Knight of the Round Table.

“I’ve seen you become Etrigan and I still can’t believe half the stories you tell,” exclaimed Tim, scientist through and through. Across the table Steph and Cass giggled at something on Cass’ phone.

“No, I think he means more like the spirits in…in A Christmas Story. Not like the Great Pumpkin,” (Peanuts movies had really gone over Cass’ head).

“Tt” clicked Damian impatiently, “Tell us more about Gotham’s ghosts. What about the old stockyards? I’ve always felt that area would have its share of restless spirits.”

“I heard a good story the other day,” interjected Dick, refilling his water glass, “Jason, you can tell us if it's true,”

“Sure,” Jason smiled, feeling full and pleasantly warm after the small glass of mead Alfred had remembered he liked.

“Alright, so some of the cops I’ve met are totally convinced this is real. That there’s a Devil at the Crossroads and he can make anything happen for you, but you”ll…” he trails away looking across the table at Tim’s face. Bruce watches Cass pull the phone from Stephanie’s nerveless fingers as the blonde’s face drains of color. Tim’s mouth is pressed into a firm line and he drops the butter knife he’d been fiddling with. It falls with a small clatter next to his plate. Blood looks more serious than he has all night.

“Don’t…don’t tell me you’ve run into this character? I laughed really hard at a detective the other day, I think I hurt his feelings actually…” said Dick, a little remorseful.

“Did everything else…fall away when he appeared to you?” asked Blood of Tim. Damian saw Tim’s hand tremble as he reached for his empty water glass and he refilled it from the water pitcher Alfred passed to him. Bruce looked from Tim to Stephanie, suddenly regretting not investigating this seemingly benign urban legend. Tim nodded. Steph continued to stare blankly at the remains of her meal on the plate on the table before her. Cass leaned a shoulder against her, worried.

“Jason do you mean to tell me you knew about some rogue demon haunting my streets and didn’t do anything about it? Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Bruce, a little Batman creeping into his voice.

“Because I can’t do anything against that demon,” replied Jason, meeting his eyes squarely.

The table was silent for a beat, digesting this information.

“What does he look like?” asked Damian, unfazed

“What did he offer you?” asked Dick, simultaneously.

Tim swallowed a few times. 

“We…we were walking back to the train from the stadium after a Muse concert. There were groups of people ahead and behind us, and cars. And then…there weren’t. We were waiting for the walk signal and everything else faded away. It was just us on the curb and…him in the middle of the intersection. He had on jeans and a hoodie. I don’t think I could describe his face or ethnicity it- it was like he shifted constantly.”

“Eyes,” murmured Stephanie, still not looking up. Tim shuddered and Bruce felt a trickle of fear down his back. The kinds of goosebumps he didn’t generally get anymore. Not after everything he’d seen.

“His eyes were red,” supplied Tim quietly.

“And what did he offer you?” Alfred repeated the question gently. 

But both refused to say anything more. Stephanie shook her head emphatically, breathing hard while Tim, if possible, paled further. Bruce and Alfred exchanged glances across the dining room table.

“Time for some hot chocolate and tea,” announced Alfred and the kids knew he wanted to usher them into the bright lights of the kitchen and comfort them with sweets. Cass pulled Stephanie out of her chair. Dick, looking concerned, started helping Alfred clear the table. Damian followed suit, unasked for once. Tim managed to pile his own silverware onto his plate, hands barely shaking, and followed them. At the door to the kitchen, he turned back and unbuttoned his lips enough to say,

“Bruce?” meeting Bruce’s eyes for the first time since the subject came up, “Jay’s seen him, too.”

“Before or…after?” Bruce asked slowly. Knowing Tim would know what he was asking about his brother.

“After.” and he disappeared into the kitchen.

Bruce looked at Blood, who was petting the cat who’d just jumped into his lap, sniffing hopefully at the remains of dinner. The disgraced knight returned Bruce’s mild glare with a shrewd look of his own.

“I know you’ll try to meet him. If he shows himself to you, do not antagonize him.” Blood commanded, eyes hard. “There’s no Leaguer who can do a damn thing about him. He’s a part of the fabric of this city as surely as Batman is. The people with sense, like your children, don’t make deals with him anyway.”

“I protect everyone, sensible or not. Why didn’t you tell me about him?” 

“Bruce, it would take me a year to tell you about every haunted, possessed or cursed piece of pavement in this town. Most of them aren’t pertinent to what you’re doing when you’re out hunting. Most of the sentient ones aren’t interested in you, they see you as a…kind of peer. I know, because I asked some of them. After we met that first time.”

Bruce is startled. He reaches out and picks Damian’s cat off the table, earning a look of pure offense as it sits to wash itself.

“A peer? Should I take that as a compliment?” only half-joking. 

“No.” One of the candles on the table guttered, throwing shadows across the ancient face even though the chandelier above them was on and casting steady light.


	2. The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What did he offer you?"

Batman steered the beast of a car through Gotham's empty streets. They were moving through the old industrial corridor, quieter than other neighborhoods due to the lack of commercial or residential space. His stakeout with Red Robin at the docks had yielded valuable information but they wouldn't be able to act on it until the shipping container came in on Thursday. They were headed back to the Cave now.

Tim was tired after their several hours of patient waiting-in-place, but was working his way through a backlog of emails on a small tablet. Bruce smiled at Tim's rapid-fire fingers tapping away even at this hour. His family's company didn't deserve Tim's brilliance. He decided now was as good a time as any.

"I wanted to ask about the other night," He watched out of the corner of his eye as Tim stiffened, fingers briefly frozen. It was clear he didn't need to be more specific.

Tim finished a line and snapped the tablet shut.

"I've tried to come at it from a few different angles. I have to assume that he's able to manipulate or enhance fear-response somehow, since neither Steph or I are normally that skittish. Definitely not so long after the fact. I couldn't really even think about it clearly for a long time. I had to force myself to walk through the memory in order to start analyzing it at all. Magic makes sense." he said, his mouth twisting sullenly. He reminded Bruce of Damian for a small second.

"I assumed The Crossroads was an urban legend, even though magic's hit me over the head a few times." Bruce admitted. "Are you able to talk about what he said to you? I wouldn't rule out the idea that he inhibits that somehow."

Tim's gauntleted fists opened and closed a few times.

"No," he said slowly, "I think our reluctance to talk about that is just due to the delayed fear. Maybe...shame." He inhaled deeply through his nose and blew it out of his mouth.

"You can't tell anyone this. Especially not Damian." His shoulders slumped in the passenger seat's harness. 

There was a long silence, Tim apparently steeling himself for whatever he had to say. Finally Bruce cleared his throat and asked,

"Did he offer to...erase Damian somehow? Make everyone forget he'd ever existed?" He tried to say it matter-of-factly, as though the idea didn't hurt him.

"God, no," said Tim, his voice wry, "That would have been too easy to turn down." He straightened slightly

"He offered to let us raise Damian. Like, from infancy. He'd erase everything Talia and Ra's ever did to him, said you would have had gotten him as a baby. And that I'd still-" he broke off.

"-still get to be part of the family. Be Robin while he grew up."

Bruce stopped at a stoplight at a deserted intersection. He didn't normally stop at those. In this car, at least. 

He turned and gripped Tim's shoulder. Tried to put all his understanding in his hold and his posture.

"It's okay, Tim. It's okay that it was hard to say 'No' to that."

Tim didn't quite smile, and his shoulders still slumped, but he relaxed slightly. Bruce eased off the brake and they rolled onward.

"I won't tell anyone. And I'm not going to ask you what he offered Stephanie. I assume you were able to hear that?"

"Yeah, I could hear it. You've probably got a pretty accurate guess of what he offered her. Accurate enough anyway."

Bruce did.

"What did he say when you both turned him down?"

Tim suppressed a shiver, nothing but a slight jerk of his head betrayed it. And again that ghost of an almost-chill hit Bruce, running up his arms under the heavy material of the suit. It rattled him to see his kids rattled. He'd watched them bring down foes three times their size, weight, and power and have fun doing it.

"He just laughed."

____

Matches Malone had shuffled through the Crossroads twice in as many weeks. Late at night, once surrounded by crowds leaving the stadium, the second time alone. The wide fields of mostly empty parking lots yielded no Devil, never faded to black as the red-eyed man appeared. Bruce was frustrated but maintained his stooped, sloppy gait, heading back toward the city buildings a few blocks away.

Once he hit the first corner store he became aware of someone following him, someone who wasn't being subtle about it. He paused, like Matches was undecided about something, or thinking of taking a leak against a wall, then turned down an alley and waited for the pursuer to catch up.

"Hey, B," Jason said casually as he turned into the alley.

Bruce was surprised. The neighborhood was adjacent to the part of Gotham that Jason considered his territory, but he avoided Bruce. Hadn't sought him out at all since he came back. Bruce had confronted him once he realized, staggered, who the Red Hood was, but to say that had gone poorly was a gross understatement.

"Jason," Bruce suppressed the urge his arms had to reach out and touch his lost boy. Jason was too skinny under the baggy sweatshirt and leather jacket, his adult height at odds with the youthful face he still had.

"I heard Matches was asking about the Crossroads." Jason kept his distance, taking up a wide stance on the other side of a trash can. With his hands stuffed in his pockets he almost looked relaxed.

"I didn't think the Devil at the Crossroads was real. Tim and Stephanie, and Jason Blood, told me otherwise recently," Bruce offered as explanation.

"And what? You think you can stop him?" Jason scoffed, his voice suddenly full of the scorn he'd had the last time they'd met.

"I can't let him keep preying on people. That woman's four kids went into foster care when she got arrested for fraud. And Paul Montgomery was committed to Arkham last week for insisting he used to have a family that he regretted 'wishing away,'"

"Still don't see what you can do about it. Figured Blood would have taken care of it if anyone could." Jason lit a cigarette, guarding the lighter with chapped, bruised hands.

They stood silent for a moment, as Jason puffed on the cigarette and Bruce tried not to wish Alfred was there to glare Jay into stubbing it out on the pavement. Bruce felt too defeated to glare. He knew it would only make things worse.

"He probably wants you in full regalia," Jason offered suddenly.

"The suit?" Bruce asked, "I suppose this might have offended him," he said, glancing down at Macthes's grubby ensemble.

Jason huffed a quiet laugh.

"Doubt much offends him. But he...he knows who we all are. He might want you in the cape. Or he may just not want to talk to you at all. Most people make it through that intersection just fine."

They settled back into quiet as Jason finished his cigarette. Bruce felt the moment ending, sensed Jay would take off shortly. Scrambled to think of something that wouldn't set the boy off. Knew better than to ask what the Devil had offered him.

"Alfred misses you, worries about you. If you still don't want to be around me that's fine. I won't push it. But…I know he wants to see you." _See you and feed you up_ he thought to himself.

Jason's face twisted through a few emotions before he hunched his shoulders defensively and turned on his heel to stalk out of the alley and away from Bruce.


	3. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peer review.

Batman let the bike roll slowly to a stop at the Crossroads. He'd taken the bike because it ran quieter than the car, almost silently in fact. He didn't want to spook the few homeless people who camped in the surrounding area. And, if he was honest with himself, he didn't want anyone to watch "The Batman" sitting at a seemingly nondescript intersection waiting for nothing, if the Devil didn't show.

He turned the motor off and listened to the relative stillness of the wind sweeping the empty pavement around him. It was getting colder as November slid into December. This had been the only clear night in a week, he'd waited until he could take the bike without chancing roads slick with cold rain. He could feel his cape being tugged by the wind, fluttering around his arms and the back of the bike. 

So slow as to be nearly imperceptible the wind died down to nothing. Batman scanned the horizon as it gradually disappeared. When the intersection was surrounded by a black that wasn't penetrated by the meager light of its one street light, he turned to meet the scarlet eyes of a figure that couldn't be pinned down.

They regarded each other for a few minutes. Silently Bruce tried to force the face and form to solidify into something readable, something with detail, but the visage slipped away each time, like a piece of a dream you can't retrieve after waking up.

He found that looking out of the corner of one eye was slightly better. By keeping his head turned away he could get an idea of facial expression around the red eyes. Or perhaps the expression of patient amusement was him projecting.

"That's the best you can do, I'm afraid."

The Devil's voice was similarly nondescript in pitch and tone, but Bruce recognized the undercurrent in it. The prickly sense of dealing with something entirely inhuman didn't take him by surprise, he'd been expecting it. That crackle beneath the words, like they were somehow both more and less important than when someone human used them.

"You can probably make yourself perceivable," Bruce offered by way of rejoinder.

"I find that doesn't tend to have the effect the human mind is hoping for. Not all of us come in such neat little packages as that beast Merlin grafted onto the knight,"

"I want you to stop preying on people," Bruce offered, getting to the point.

"Yes, I know" The Devil replied evenly. Motionless.

"If you wanted to avoid my attention you never would have made yourself known to my children. Why did you?" Bruce knew intimidation was pointless in this situation but he spat the question out with more force and anger than he meant to show.

" _Your_ children? Well. I didn't think to be surprised by you, Knight. I thought we'd have a nice, meaningless conversation in circles about your motives and mine. I assumed you would take your stance as Protector of the City, not a personal one."

What Bruce could glean from the red eyes and shifting face, which were really becoming painful to focus on, told him the Devil was still, apparently, in a benign mood. The way the dull and dusty colors shifted on the places where skin should be suggested the Devil was actually surprised and not toying with him.

"When I spoke with _your_ children none of them would have thought you'd ever refer to them as such. I wasn't at all certain it would get back to you."

Bruce felt his heart constrict, feeling his failings as a father or at least a father figure. He pushed them aside:

"What do you get from your deals? Why prey on people and make others suffer the collateral damage? Their families and other innocent lives are ruined when they take a deal from you."

"How dare you," the Devil seethed, in voice and form, his edges licking out like flames. Bruce felt the sudden change like a bucket of water thrown over him. He tensed for movement without knowing what he could possibly do to save himself. The darkness around them pressed closer, oppressing and making the red eyes stand out more. Bruce found he couldn't keep his head partly averted anymore, his eyes, even obscured by the lenses, were held by the demon's gaze now.

"Some detective. Some protector. Some Knight. Why do you think I sit here at the meeting place in this settlement, why I've stayed here for centuries?" The Devil's voice was cold iron on his ears, the searing cold of it sank into Bruce's bones and he shivered involuntarily. The panic and dread he'd felt growing since the blackness fell around them threatened to break out of his tight control. Still, his voice betrayed nothing when he growled out:

"Enlighten me."

As suddenly as the Devil had angered it settled back into its smoky form. It seemed to regard him for a few moments and Bruce felt some of the weight of dread lift from him, which he had to assume was a conscious effort on the Devil's part. 

Finally it spoke, measuring its words. Its voice returned to its previous level of discomforting.

"You've cast a long shadow over this city, Knight. It will be felt long after your mortal life has passed. It is...a rare kind of power in a human. I forgot for a moment that you're as shortsighted as most of your fellows."

"That woman's children were neglected, and they are even now being adopted, as a group, into a better family, through one of _your_ charities. As for non-existence I refuse to argue the point with you. There is no suffering in what never was."

"I am here for the same reason you are here. As we always have been, as we always shall be, here in this city. We balance the scales, each in our own way." 

The words were a threat and a promise, and Bruce felt a kind of fear that he knew had nothing to do with the Devil's presence. The one foot he had on the ground felt like it had sprouted from the asphalt, one and inseparable. A chain he had forged himself.

The blackness surrounding them dissipated all at once, revealing the city lights and skyline, brighter for their absence. The Devil's form was almost impossible to see but for the eyes, glowing as steadily as the urban lights. Even as Bruce watched, the shape grew more vague and transparent.

"Why did you bring me here, why approach my children?" He said it defiantly this time. They _were_ his.

He felt the answer more than heard it.

_The first I encountered, the one with clipped wings...he surprised me._

Despite his original desire not to have Batman seen loitering in a deserted intersection, it was long minutes before Bruce turned the engine on and left it.

_____

Jason was only limping slightly. It had been worth it. Beating those little shits senseless had been _so_ satisfying. He was pretty sure the camera guy had pissed himself when Jason had turned a gun on him, after the rest were down.

"The next time I catch anyone bribing people into fighting for the camera I won't be so gentle," he had ground out through the bandana that covered the lower half of his face. His red hoodie was normally enough coverage for his taste, but since the kids had a camera running he'd thought it was best to be cautious.

The suburban assholes had fled, dragging their limper comrades with them. Some of the homeless men who'd been watching were yelling at him. He'd lost them enough money for several days of relative comfort on the streets. 

They were happier after he handed over the wallets he'd pulled out of his target's pockets. 

He warned them about not using the traceable cards or keeping anything identifiable and wandered westward, under the viaduct and towards the city. 

He lit a cigarette with hands that stung from punching and felt almost...not happy. Chipper, perhaps. He chalked it up to leftover adrenaline, but he did feel good about putting a stop to "bum fight" videos. 

It had been a month or two since he started busting heads. The first time was an accident: he'd shuffled around a corner and walked right into a pimp beating up a woman. Had the pimp on the ground before he'd even thought about whether he wanted to get involved. Turned out the bastard was part of a small trafficking ring. The woman had pointed him in the direction of a motel and given him the names and descriptions she could remember. With only the smallest of hesitations he'd given her the cash he'd stolen out of a unprotected purse earlier that afternoon and directed her to a shelter, since she wasn't willing to talk to cops.

After doing a little recon, picking off the low-level muscle one by one, and bursting in on the ones guarding the women, he found himself holding a gun and looking down at the brains of the brains of the operation. He was dead from a bullet that Jason had fired and he felt not one whit of regret over it.

Since then he'd been able to stop stealing and instead lived off the ill gotten gains of the scum he took down. And he felt good. He even talked to people now, chatted with diner waitresses, bodega owners, and the homeless people who knew he was good for a cigarette or a meal. Not like those first months of solitude and hunger and cold, when it felt like the city was punishing him for being above ground. When it gave him a cruel glimpse of Batman and the new Robin swinging away from a crime scene and he had curled up on himself for days, unmoving, until the hunger clawing at his insides outweighed the despair.

There was a small part of him, one he ignored, that knew if he kept interfering with the local baddies that he would catch the attention of Bruce sooner or later. But because he tried to think of his first life as little as possible - pushing pushing pushing it away - he didn't have a plan for that day.

Jason felt good enough to whistle a little, a few random notes as he strolled through the Crossroads and remembered that playground ghost story and how Esteban swore that his abuela swore that the Devil was real and that he lived here, at this random intersection in what amounted to Gotham's middle-of-nowhere.

He was almost across the street and past the intersection when he noticed that he couldn't see the city lights anymore. Jason put a hand to the gun under his hoodie and spun, stopping at the sight of the Devil standing in the middle of the intersection. His scalp prickled uncomfortably and he felt a suffocating sense of dread like in the worst of his nightmares. He swallowed bile and finally, after a long silence, pulled the near-spent cigarette away from where it had been dangling from his lips and flicked it to the ground, stomping it out, all while his other hand remained on the gun.

"Gotta admit, this is a bit of a surprise," memories of fighting magic-wielders alongside Bruce threatened to crowd his vision. He pushed them down along with the bile.

"Likewise, little bird. Your heart is darker than I would have guessed," the Devil replied, its eyes glowing round and steady in the otherwise unreadable face.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Jay growled, and he didn't know if he meant the "little bird" or the aspersions cast on his heart.

"I can make it better," the Devil soothed, and its form became smaller, more contained. 

"I can free you from that pain you've been visiting on others. I can give you what you crave, change your past," it continued. 

Jason forced his hands to light another cigarette, buying time. His fingers trembled around the flame of the lighter.

"Look you're not fooling anyone. If I say 'Yes' to that you'll probably just put me back in the ground and if I'm honest I just started getting used to being back. I'm committed, I all but signed the W2,"

"No, that isn't what you want," the Devil agreed, practically crooning, its form shifting less than it had. It almost stayed within the confines of a human shape, small in the middle of the Crossroads.

They stood silent for more long moments. Jason tried to turn to go, but felt rooted to the spot. Terror built up in his chest, making his breath come short. Finally he burst:

"I'm not BUYING what you're SELLING," he shouted, his voice cracking on the last word, "You can't take me back to before-- I can't go back to being that," he broke off. 

Months of suppressing his memories of Bruce and Alfred, of Batman and Robin left him unable to even form the words: _I can't go back to before Joker, it's too late._

"No, of course you can't," a sibilant whisper, "His crowbar left marks on your soul even I couldn't erase. But that isn't what you want, in any case." the Devil assured him.

Jason felt tears pricking at eyes, stinging. He'd dropped his cigarette at the mention of the crowbar. His breath came ragged through his open mouth, his shoulders curled inward and all he wanted was to run. Still his feet were stuck in place. He couldn't speak to ask what the Devil clearly wanted him to ask, "What do I want?"

As if he'd spoken the words aloud the demon answered:

"You want him to save you. Not from death. Not from torture, After all that, all you wanted was to die knowing that he _tried_."

"I can give you that. A better death, cradled, broken, in his arms, safe in the knowledge that he loved you. Tucked back into the earth at peace."

Tears were rolling down Jason's face and the months of confusion, grief, and abandonment felt like they were sitting on his chest. Gasping, he fought to shove the pathetic hope he felt out of his mind. Tried not imagine the validation he had so craved from Bruce, of the last things he'd thought of before Joker's bomb had gone off. 

The Devil waited patiently, edges flickering in the pale light of the street lamp.

Trembling like a leaf Jason forced himself to stand up, not straight, but straighter. He scrubbed his face with the dirty sleeves of his hoodie. All at once the blackness surrounding them began to dissipate. The decision was made.

"Sorry," Jason exhaled shakily, "but if I know one thing, it's that there ain't no such thing as a free lunch." 

A small part of Jason's mind wanted to laugh hysterically at using such a cliche phrase given the circumstances, but the rest of him was rallying around the memory of a science teacher using it to describe the universe as a closed system. He clung to that memory, the eagerness he had felt for new knowledge as a kid. The classroom setting: safe, yet blissfully free from the presence of people he so loved and missed. 

The Devil's eyes were all Jason could see of him anymore.

_As you say, little bird. I'll always be here if you change your mind._

Jason spat on the ground of the Crossroads and continued, forcing himself to walk not run, back toward Gotham proper.


	4. The Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's the best way to lead a stray home?

Bruce was brooding. It irritated him, knowing that the kids poked fun at him when he went still like this, and that it was at, at least partly, well deserved. 

But so much of his days and nights were spent in motion, or if not, absorbed in the work in front of him, that when he had to dedicate time to a personal problem he made himself sit down somewhere in the manor and think it out, generally while staring out at the grounds.

Brooding, in short.

It was sleeting outside. The leaded windows tinkled softly as the icy rain hit them, breaking the quiet of the otherwise silent room, one of the many sitting rooms. Bruce thought this one had originally being one of the ladies drawing rooms on the first floor. Although they'd been redecorated many times over, most of the rooms carried a flavor of their original purpose. The billiards room was still a billiards room, for example. This one was sunny on sunny days, south-facing, and had slightly more delicate, but comfortable, furnishings. An elaborate secretary stood against one wall. Bruce was sitting in one of the overstuffed floral armchairs near the windows.

He was thinking of when Dick was young. He'd been so young, younger even than Damian when Talia revealed him. Bruce had only meant to keep Dick until Zucco was behind bars and the circus was safe for him to return to: Jack Haley had offered to adopt Dick and he had people there that he'd grown up with. It might have been the best thing for Dick, but Bruce had failed to capture Zucco and months stretched into years and somehow he'd become a parent to a little boy.

And Dick had needed to grieve - Bruce remembered the quiet early days - but as time had gone on Dick revealed his incorrigible good spirits as well as his seemingly limitless ability to scale or backflip off of any available surface. 

Bruce had expected to be able to help Dick with grief, with growing up without them, but Dick was an entirely different child than Bruce had been. Dick wasn't overwhelmed by anger and guilt: he had his sad days and his sharp moments, but he still knew how to laugh and play. He made friends easily. In fact for the first time it really hit Bruce that the ways in which he had dealt with his parents' murder may have been much farther outside the norm than he'd previously assumed.

But he was most surprised when he realized that doing typical "family" things together – helping Alfred in the kitchen, decorating for Christmas, reading stories – made it easier to think of the good memories he had of his own childhood. He never would have guessed that raising a child would help him relive happy times with less pain.

Once he and Alfred had gained Jason's trust - really earned it - it had been the same. Even though Jason was a teenager he'd been starving in every way. It was a joy to feed him: to watch him plow through Alfred's superb cuisine, devour the books in the manor's library, to see his face light up when praised. He was angry sometimes, but Bruce had never worried much about it. He understood anger.

Except Jason had so rarely been angry with _him_. After he'd come back, after Bruce realized his son's grave was empty, after he'd run out to find him, all of Jason's anger had been focused on him. And Bruce couldn't blame him. He should have known, should have looked, should have gotten there in time in the first place. 

So when Jason had screamed at him to leave him alone, at the end of their disastrous reunion, he hadn't had the heart to argue. He'd dragged himself home and shut himself away in his suite for two days, ignoring entreaties from Dick and Tim, until Alfred finally pulled the story out of him.

"We can't leave him out there alone, Master Bruce," Alfred, downcast, had protested.

"I don't see that we have any choice," Bruce had responded, a elbow resting on one drawn-up knee where he sat next to the bed, his hand half-covering his face.

"He could barely look at me. I won't force my presence on him,"

Bruce was pulled back to the present by a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He had the distinct impression that Tim had pivoted away from the door to the room once he'd seen Bruce in it.

"Tim," he called.

Tim turned back around, a book in his hands. This sitting room was a good one for reading, far enough away from the other well-used common areas that one could remain undisturbed for a while.

"Could we talk?" Bruce asked.

"Sure," Tim replied. He curled one leg under him and sat in the other floral armchair, laying his book on the inlaid table next to it.

Bruce got right to the point. 

"I think you've had more interaction with Jason than any of the rest of us since he's been...back," Bruce swallowed hard.

"I want- I want him to know he still has family, even if I'm not it. I've been thinking of asking Alfred to approach him, but I want your input. What do you think is the best way to go about it?"

Tim took a deep breath and blew it upward, ruffling his hair where it lay on his forehead. 

"Well, I agree that sending Alfred is your best bet. If there were some kind of neutral territory I'd say approach him there, but I haven't caught him doing much that isn't beating the shit out of crooks and we don't want to send Alfred into that. Also, I don't think Jason would want Alfred to see him doing that anyway. At first, at least."

"You're keeping tabs on him?" Bruce asked, surprised.

"Bruce," Tim chided, a lopsided smile on his face, "Babs has his home base narrowed down to three likely buildings in the five block radius we know he frequents the most. Dick gets the latest on Red Hood from his contacts in the force and on the streets. I've got a rough idea of his schedule – I know he does his grocery shopping on Wednesdays just like Alfred – but he hides in plain sight and changes his routes a lot."

"You have a full file on him downstairs, with almost as much intel as we've managed to gather. And I know for a fact that Alfred cuts out articles mentioning Red Hood. He's got the one about Jason saving those kids from that fire tacked up in his closet."

Bruce frowned.

"I don't go snooping in everyone's rooms," Tim exclaimed, holding his hands out placatingly, "Damian told me about it!"

They shared a sigh over Damian's disregard for certain boundaries.

"Anyway," Tim continued, "he is, predictably, _really_ hard to tail. It's why I can't get much of an idea of what he does when he isn't being Hood."

"How did you keep Damian off his trail?" Bruce asked, knowing his youngest would have taken that as a challenge.

"Dick managed that piece of magic. We warned Cass and Steph to stay clear of him, too." Tim's face was serious again.

"I know he sees me as a replacement. I figured he'd see the girls and Damian the same way."

For a few minutes they listened to the rain pattering down the windows. Deeper in the house one of the grandfather clocks chimed the hour. 

"He doesn't know," Tim broke the silence.

"Know what?" Bruce asked looking up from his hands, clasped lightly in front of him as he rested his elbows on his knees. He met Tim's eyes and found himself the recipient of one of those looks that felt like it went right through him. It startled him slightly, if only because he usually only got them from Alfred.

"Jay doesn't know how deeply you and Alfred mourned him. He doesn't know how guilty Dick feels for not looking out for him more. He doesn't know that I only came onto the scene because you were starting to toe the line. He doesn't know anything of what happened after he died. All he knows is he crawled out of his grave and we were all out there, business as usual."

"I tried to tell him, but that was only the second time we'd met and he was injured. It was all I could do to finish patching him up before he bolted. He acts angry because he's hurt. He's still a paranoid street kid who thinks that caring about other people, that trusting them, is just going to earn him a kick in the teeth."

"Get the addresses from Barbara and send Alfred, he'll be able to sniff him out from there. Jason'll feel ambushed, but he won't yell at Alfred. Much. I'm willing to bet there's still a part of him that's desperate to know you both loved him." Tim looked away, out onto the grey grounds where the rain was starting to turn into snow.

Bruce sighed with a small smile. Here was a simpler problem to start to fix.

"You know, I'm grateful every day that you showed up on my doorstep to tell me what my problem was."

Tim grinned and then laughed as Bruce stood and pulled him into a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't obvious, I'm taking a lot of liberties with canon. Because I do not like canon.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm planning on wrapping this up in another chapter or two, but I might put other stories in this setting/timeline.


	5. The Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Tim and Jason met.

Tim heard the unmistakable rattle of automatic weapon-fire and started running toward it. He was headed toward the border of the old meat-packing district and the DeVries industrial corridor, listening to a few return shots. 

It only took him about five minutes to swing and leap his way the several blocks, but by the time he got there whatever had happened was over. He paced along a few different rooftops, looking down at a smattering of people already going about their business again. It was still early, only around midnight, and some of the warehouses sometimes had shows or raves. The streets below held a mix of yuppie party-goers, hardcore punks, and one or two homeless people who camped in the area. Most people were clumped together, nervous, others were leaving quickly, shoulders hunched as they looked around themselves warily.

Tim spotted some broken glass glittering in the street light at the end of the block and hopped down a rickety fire escape to get to the ground of the alley near it. As he landed he noticed a bundle of layered clothing sorting through a Styrofoam takeout box near the mouth of the alley. He didn't want to startle the man so he deliberately kicked some debris near his feet. 

The homeless man gave him a passing glance and smiled down into his box of fries.

"Hey, there Robin Red Breast!" he greeted Tim cheerfully.

"Hey, Sal," Tim suppressed a sigh. He hated that nickname, but at least Sal was the only one who called him that. That he knew of.

"Missed all the action," Sal said, chewing on some leftover sandwich.

"I noticed. What happened?" Tim sat on his haunches nearby. Under his cape he found the pocket on his belt with emergency cash.

"Hood busted up some big timers. Money laundering is my guess. That dry cleaner's on the corner. Lights on, but nobody home ever. Occasional meetings of big guys in nice coats, y'know?"

Tim had frozen at the mention of Red Hood. He'd been carefully observing Jason from a distance when he had the time, but he hadn't gotten closer than that. None of them had since the awful week they'd figured out Jason was alive and Bruce had confronted him.

"Pretty sure Hood got hit though," Sal continued, startling Tim.

"What makes you say that?" His voice betrayed none of the apprehension he suddenly felt.

"Saw him fall real sudden-like. Moved wrong after that," he jerked his chin towards the dry cleaner in question.

Tim said his goodbyes to Sal, giving him the few hundreds he'd had on him. He moved across the intersection by sticking close to the walls of buildings. Not really trying to hide, but not calling attention to himself either, if any of the people up the street were watching. He heard sirens in the distance that he guessed were headed his way.

Reaching the dry cleaner it looked to him like the gunfire had started from inside, most of the glass seemed to be on the sidewalk and street. He moved to the rear of the building silently and found an open back door. Ghosting inside he confirmed that no one was left, though there was blood splattered on the back wall and in a few places on the floor. He was careful not to step in it as he moved back out of the building and over to an open bay door on the adjacent street. It would have had a good vantage of both the front and back doors of the dry cleaner.

Tim moved slowly toward the gaping black hole of the bay door, looming in the face of the abandoned warehouse. He held his staff behind him and rounded the edge of the bay carefully, but his gut told him there wasn't anyone there.

He found more blood, smeared around the filthy concrete.

Tim stood there thinking until the lights and sirens told him the cops had arrived. He left out the back of the abandoned warehouse and grappled to a nearby roof.

If Jason was hurt he was probably badly hurt. Sal had described him getting shot. If he'd retreated to the warehouse while the crooks got away and that was his blood there had been an uncomfortable amount of it.

But. Tim couldn't forget the first time they'd met. He knew Jason wouldn't take kindly to Tim finding him. He might even be more dangerous injured.

Who would he accept help from though? He'd shocked them all with the black eye Bruce had come home with. Tim wasn't about to ask Alfred to come all the way down here from the Palisades.

And at least he didn't have history with Jason. Outside that one run-in, right before they'd figured out who Red Hood was, they'd never met. 

Tim stood still and silent, frowning in the shadow of an old water tower. 

It was a bad idea. But he had to do it. No one else had a chance of approaching him. And Tim thought he knew where he'd head if he was injured and withdrawing from this scene.

Decided, Tim moved quickly and efficiently. He pulled out the grapple and headed further west.

_________

Tim stopped by one of the family's safe houses and grabbed a backpack full of med kit accessories. It was awkward fitting it over his Red Robin cape, but he didn't want to risk taking a smaller kit and not have everything he'd need. 

As he swung back out into the night he contacted Barbara, calling her private line instead of speaking into the shared comm link Oracle monitored.

"Tim? I thought you were on patrol," she answered worriedly.

"I am. I'm gonna try something stupid, but I want to keep it quiet unless things get out of hand,"

Silence.

"None of what you just said inspires confidence," Barbara finally replied. 

"I'm 98% certain Red Hood got shot tonight. I've got a med kit and I'm headed to the old rep's office on Leavitt and Montano that we scoped out. If he couldn't make it home from where he was I think he might stop there,"

Tim heard her take a deep breath.

"Tell me what happened. Then tell me what you plan to do if he shoots you."  
_________

Tim landed softly behind a shabby, single story office building. It had three storefronts, one was unoccupied. It had been the campaign office of the district's current representative, a dark horse, whose insignia and picture were still on the front window. The small bank of buildings had no security cameras and the empty office was only secured with a few normal locks. On the backdoor hung a small lock box, the kind realtors used, which held the key.

There were a lot of abandoned and shady buildings in the part of Gotham that they knew Jason stuck to, but this was in a zone with fewer cameras, police or otherwise. The representative was well liked by his constituents; that and the official-looking seal on the windows and doors had kept other elements from breaking in. Barbara, Tim, and Dick had flagged it as a spot they themselves would use in a pinch, figuring Jason could have seen its qualities too.

Gently, Tim tried the latch on the back door. It was unlocked. He felt both elated and nervous. He hadn't really expected it to be this easy to find Jason. 

Of course it could be unlocked for any number of reasons. Maybe an even less friendly guy with semi-automatics was waiting behind the door. 

He inched the door towards himself and peered through the crack. No light, no movement. He pulled it open just enough to slide through it, making sure to account for the bulky backpack.

Now he could see faint light. A door on the right led to what he knew was a small galley kitchen. A sliver of bluish light spread out from beneath it.

Tim had been quiet so far, but Jason had the same training he had. And, he and Barbara had agreed, it was best not to sneak up on him. He swallowed, staying close to the back wall, not standing directly in front of the kitchen door, and very deliberately cleared his throat. If it was someone besides Jason back there he'd just have to deal with it.

Nothing.

He swallowed again. Why was this so much more stressful than barging in on villain hideouts?

Tim moved toward the door, not bothering to step lightly, making the smallest of noises against the cheap office carpeting. He slowly pushed the kitchen's pocket door back into the wall. The way it rattled on its rollers it might as well have been a train barreling through the silent space.

Wedged into a corner between wall and lower cabinets, Jason glared at him from the floor. His legs were stretched in front of him, a wad of absorption pads wrapped his right shoulder, pinned against his back by the way he leaned against the cabinet door and his left hand at the front. His right held one of his guns on his thigh, but his trigger finger rested alongside the barrel, his hand relaxed. 

Jason's eyes blazed out from beneath the hood, as angry as the last time they'd met, but Tim felt encouraged that the gun wasn't pointed at him. Hoping to skip past some posturing he said:

"Bullet go right through?"

He watched as Jason's eyes wandered over him, taking in the backpack as Tim slid it carefully off his shoulders.

"Yeah. You got any water on you?" he finally replied, his voice scratchy but still tight.

"Sure," Tim crouched to unzip the backpack and pulled out a bottle of water. He thought of rolling it to Jason but questioned whether he'd be able to crack the seal, given that one hand was putting pressure on his wound. Twisting the cap off the water bottle Tim looked at Jason.

Jason slowly clicked the safety on his pistol and, sucking a breath in through his teeth, holstered it. He was pale in the dim light of the bare LED bulb over the kitchen sink. Tim moved closer to the other boy and handed him the open water bottle. Wincing, Jason tried to take it in his right hand and lift it to his lips, but he let it drop with a groan. His shoulder hurt too much to let him use that arm.

Tim was swiftly pulling more gear out of the med kit. He set up a portable light on the cabinet above them so it shone down on Jason's injured shoulder. He pulled more absorption pads out as well as tape, bandages, and the kit for stitches.

"Who taught you to put in stitches, Bruce or Alfred?" Jason demanded, his face angry again even though his voice was taut with pain.

"Like Alfred ever let's Bruce do the stitching," Tim replied calmly. He'd removed his uniform's gloves and snapped sterile gloves on. 

Without asking, but still moving cautiously, Tim moved Jason's left hand from the pads on his shoulder and pulled them away from the wound. It bled less sluggishly than he'd hoped out onto Jason's ruined hoodie.

"Let's pull this out of the way," he suggested of the hoodie, "We'll cut your tee so I can work,"

Moving quickly, so he could get pressure back on wound, he pushed Jason's hood off his head so he could pull the sleeve off his shoulder. Jason grit his teeth and hissed when Tim pushed pads back onto him, but didn't complain. Keeping one hand on the pads Tim reached for a packet of pain meds. 

"Here, take these and have some water," 

Jason opened the small baggie of pills and used his left hand to toss back half of them. Tim noticed, but didn't argue with the half dose. When Jason had sucked down most of the bottle of water Tim said,

"Hand,"

Jason pressed his left against the wound again so Tim could thread the needle and cut his t-shirt up the sleeve to almost the neckline. In the back of his mind, Tim was appalled that Jason was out here, taking on crime lords, in just a hoodie, a short sleeved t-shirt, and cargo pants. Pushing Jason to sit up slightly he moved the pads so they all sat against the exit wound. He started cleaning the entry point and then numbing it with carefully placed injections. Jason's jaw unclenched.

"Who else knows you're here?" he asked flatly, taking another swig of the water bottle.

"No one but Barbara," Tim answered softly as he stitched. It was odd hearing and using name-names, but he knew Jason probably wasn't aware that Barbara went by Oracle now.

Jason was quiet for a moment.

"She didn't deserve what happened to her," he said softly, staring at the dented and scuzzy office coffee maker left on the opposite counter.

Tim's knee jerk reaction to this statement was "Who would?" but he said only,

"No." Then, after another moment,

"She's still in the game. She coordinates, digs for intel." Tim finished bandaging the entry wound and pushed Jason to lean forward so he could start on the exit wound. 

"She goes by Oracle. If you linked up with her you could let someone know the next time you need stitches…"

"You can stop talking now," Jason grated out as Tim finished cleaning the exit wound.

Glancing at Jason's face as he worked Tim was struck by the fact that they looked of an age. Jason should have been about four years older than Tim, but he hadn't aged while he'd been dead, apparently. The stress lines on his face didn't quite mask the fact that he looked like he could be one of Tim's taller classmates in school. Most of Tim's classmates were older than him, but still.

"Look, I don't know what went down between you and B," Tim was used to avoiding name-names and it served him well here, as Jason flinched at the mere mention of Bruce and turned to stare Tim in the face. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. Tim couldn't hold his gaze for long, the venom there was painful to look at. The Jason everyone had described to him hadn't been this hateful, even if he'd had a temper.

"Shut. Up."

Tim waited until he was close to done with the wound before trying again.

"I'm just saying, you're Alfred's favorite, you should try to see him if you can,"

Jason stood so quickly Tim was knocked backward. He didn't think Jason was even strong enough, with blood loss and pain meds, to move so fast. He filed the information away as Jason picked up the bloodied pads and tools, dumping them in the cheap backpack he'd had his own meager supplies stashed in.

Tim moved quickly to stow equipment, knowing Jason was close to running. Jason paid him no mind as the two moved toward the back door of the office. 

Jason pulled his hood back up and slid out of the door. Tim, following him closely and trying to think of what else he could say, ran into him as he stopped suddenly. Tim caught the heavy door, letting it fall silently back into place as the two of them crouched, side by side, next to a dumpster to the left of the back entrance. 

Two figures shuffled slowly past them, not bothering to look side to side or they plainly would have seen Red Robin and some bedraggled hoodlum resting on their haunches in the shadow of a shabby dumpster.

"Dumb bastard took a deal from the devil at the Crossroads," one figure said.

"Fu-uck," the second replied, drawing out the word, "How you know?"

"Shitstain tol' everyone. Bragged 'bout how the 'Ol' Tom' had taken the cancer away, just like that," he snapped his fingers, sharp in the quiet of the alley.

"I mean...he coulda been hit by that truck anyway,"

"Yeah, but he didn't have no time to put his affairs in order, like he wanted to. Like he woulda if he'd died natural. Now his ex-wife gets all that insurance money anyway,"

"Well...ain't like Andy was good to her," the man took a swig from a flask.

"Oh, I'm not saying she don't deserve it. I'm sayin: don't fuck with the Crossroads and whatever the fuck lives there."

The men exited the alley and crossed the street.

The boys stayed crouched by the dumpster, until Jason started to wonder why Tim hadn't moved yet. He wrenched himself out of the memory that had him broken out all over in cold sweat and looked at the kid in the mask. He hadn't asked about the change in costume, though he'd desperately wanted to. Why was the runt Robin now? All Jason heard from the street was that Bruce Wayne had a "real" son now, and that the latest Robin was some kind of son of a bitch. He was dying to know the whole story, though he'd never admit it.

Tim was almost totally immobile, Jason had to peer at him to even see the movements of breathing. He waved his left hand in front of Tim's lens-covered eyes. The younger boy jerked and grabbed Jason's forearm, gripping it hard. Jason felt he could have dodged if he was in peak form, but there was no denying Tim was fast. 

Jason watched Tim's throat work to swallow and suddenly felt that guilty protectiveness he'd felt the first time they'd met. After he'd dislocated the kid's shoulder.

"Hey, it's...it's okay," Jason offered gruffly, "I've seen him, too." He cleared his throat. The admission had been shakier than he'd planned.

Tim released Jason's arm and let out a long slow breath. He took a few more deep breaths. He stood and offered Jason a hand. 

"Someone," he stopped and swallowed again, "Someone's going to have to check that wound. And you need antibiotics."

"I know a shady doctor who's still sober enough to handle that much," Jason wasn't certain why he was bothering to reassure Tim at all.

"Thanks, Red," and he turned to walk down the alley, his gait not betraying that he'd been shot or that he was carrying heat under his baggy, bloodstained hoodie.

Tim watched him go, wondering if he should tail him home. But he was shaky after that mention of the Crossroads. He wanted nothing more than to go home to the Manor and fall into bed – to sleep and forget – but it had been awhile since he'd felt safe sleeping there. Some of the wounds Damian had dealt him were the kind he'd feel for the rest of his life, aches and pains to foretell storms and temperature drops. Another home and family that weren't really his, after all.

Jason felt tears pricking his eyes as he walked away. 

_You're Alfred's favorite_ , Tim had said.

He pushed his shaking hands further into his pockets, careful not to pull the fabric of the hoodie too close to the guns beneath. It was just the memory of that fucking intersection and being shot making him all weepy. He wondered if any self-respecting cab would pick him up. Maybe he could boost a car, just to get him most of the way home.

Jason continued walking. Tim grappled up and away.


	6. Reunion

Alfred parked one of the junkers the family kept for undercover work behind a giant rusting boat of a Cadillac and surveyed the building ahead. 

The neighborhood had a lot of vacant lots, developers weren't interested in this part of Gotham yet. In the grey of early spring it made the area look even more ghostly, a landscape of sparse grass and litter dotted with large pre-war apartment buildings. The brick building Alfred was considering wasn't in bad shape. It had been tuck-pointed in the last few years and its windows were all intact, displaying an array of blinds, curtains, and what were clearly just sheets in some units.

Sighing, Alfred reached across the bench seat to check, again, that the takeout boxes were still upright within the nebulous plastic bag the Thai restaurant had packed them in. He didn't trust the Tom Yum soup to remain contained. 

Thai was one of the few cuisines Alfred preferred to order rather than make. He could whip up a creditable lemon grass soup, but the flavors reminded him of his travels as a young man and it was one of his favorite comfort foods. It was a treat to go to his favorite Thai restaurant, where the owners knew him well enough to warn him well in advance of their yearly vacations, when they would be closed for as long as a month in order to visit relatives back home. Alfred had enjoyed taking Jason there, sharing tea after school while they waited for spicy noodles or picking it up together on nights when Alfred felt stretched too thin to do dinner justice.

Bruce and Dick had never been picky eaters, but they didn't share Alfred's love of the culinary the way Jason did. Jason hovered in the kitchen, happy to peel potatoes and carrots, to chop and saute alongside Alfred. Thrilled to learn the chemistry behind cooking as well as the history of different culture's dishes and what secret ingredients went into Alfred's proprietary boeuf bourguignon (something he'd made Jason swear to protect as zealously as his secret identity).

Alfred had been hoping for most of a year to see Jason back in the Manor's kitchen, but he hadn't come.

In the quickly cooling vehicle he huffed a little, his moustache twitching, and got out of the old car, pulling the bag of food with him. 

Tim had expressed doubt that Alfred could do anything besides stick out like a sore thumb in the depressed neighborhood. The butler had pulled on the work pants he used for gardening and an ancient quilted flannel jacket, threadbare and stained with engine grease, in addition to an old cap that was generally part of Bruce's Matches persona. He hunched his shoulders and adjusted his face into the thousand-yard-stare he'd perfected years ago, and thanked Master Timothy to keep his doubts to himself next time in a flat American accent that left Tim speechless.

Moving across the cracked sidewalk – one panel was missing entirely and filled with bare dirt instead – Alfred tested the door of the building. Locked. It was easily picked, but Alfred was grateful that Miss Gordon had assured him there was no video surveillance on the property. Just as he was starting to worry someone would come along and find him tampering with the lock it gave way with a click. He picked up the bag of food and entered the musty hallway.

Cigarette smoke and old cooking grease permeated the yellowed walls and dingy linoleum. He could hear a TV blaring a laugh track from one of the apartments. Alfred climbed the stairs. The reconnaissance he'd done a few nights before made him confident that Jason was living on the top floor, the fourth, in the southeast corner of the building. 

Reaching the door he'd been looking for, Alfred steeled himself to knock. It made his stomach knot to think that Jason might not want to see him. That he was alive and (arguably) well but might never come home. That one of his lads felt so rejected and forgotten. 

He knocked on the heavy, battered door.

Listening intently, Alfred could make out what sounded like some hurried movements on the other side of the door. His throat tightened when he heard the chain and two deadbolts sliding home and then the door was open and Jason stood there looking like he wasn't sure how to feel, dark circles under his eyes and a less-than-fresh long sleeve thermal hanging loose around him except at his shoulders, where the bulk of muscle he'd started gaining filled it out a little better.

Alfred drank in the sight of him, from the circles, to the mop of black hair shot through with premature grays in addition to the shock of white forelock. He seemed to be favoring his right leg. Alfred had been afraid Jason would tell him to leave, but reading him now, he saw the same stance he'd seen Jason adopt years ago, in rare moments when he felt guilty, or vulnerable. Though he was keeping most of his weight on his left leg, the boy's right shoulder was raised and turned toward Alfred, putting him further off balance. The posture Alfred knew that the boy only fell into around authority figures he respected when he was nervous: waiting for a blow to fall. Jason would face enemies, or perceived enemies, head on. But caring about people older than him, bigger than him, as a child had left him with equal parts of a need for validation and a fear of rejection, and violence.

Blinking rapidly, Alfred lifted the bag of Thai food. The aroma hit Jason and his mouth started watering.

"I thought we might share a bite," Alfred offered, trying to keep his voice even. Jason had always responded better to casualness than emotion. 

Stepping aside Jason let Alfred pass him. The apartment was fully furnished, Alfred assumed by a previous occupant as he doubted Jason's tastes ran toward "1970s nautical." Slightly grimy oil paintings of dark waters and a portrait of a lumpy looking sea captain decorated the walls of the small abode. Alfred set the food down on a dated table made to look like a ship's wheel, topped with glass, scratched but clean. Jason limped to the small kitchenette and grabbed silverware. He stopped halfway to the table and turned back nervously for two glasses of water. His hands shook as he placed them on the table.

They ate in the quiet. Jason stealing glances at Alfred, wondering if he was mad at him for staying away. Not sure he wasn't mad at himself. Alfred had always been easier than Bruce. Easier to understand, easier to be around. When Jason had been a kid and finally understood that Alfred's stiff demeanor and dry humor didn't mean he didn't care he'd really started to feel safe at the Manor. 

And the food. He dreamed of those meals. Not when he'd been starving again on the streets, he had nightmares or nothingness then, but these days he'd find himself in a dream at a table that both was and wasn't one of the Manor's, laden with food he knew Alfred had cooked, but Alfred wasn't always there. Sometimes they ate together and the dream felt more like a memory, other times he worried because he was at the table alone and couldn't start without Them, but he couldn't decide who They were. Often those dreams would quickly segue into something else, but he would wake up thinking of the meals he had helped Alfred cook before he'd died.

It became hard to swallow the Thai food, delicious though it was, as Jason thought about the meals they all must share now, Bruce and Alfred and the pack of kids that had come after Jason. He started to feel a little of the anger that stemmed from the hurt, the humiliation of being forgotten.

"I haven't had this in a long time," Alfred said, polishing off the Tom Yum soup, "It was difficult to go there without you,"

Jason went still, remembering the unsmiling matriarch of the Thai family who had, despite her apparent unfriendliness, always insisted on giving Jason coconut ice cream at the end of a meal, no charge. He wondered if she was still alive.

"The year after you died," Alfred's voice got softer, "That is the lowest Master Bruce and I have ever been. Worse, even, than the aftermath of his parents' murder."

Feeling winded, like he'd taken a punch to the gut, Jason stared at Alfred, unwilling to miss any nuance there.

"I couldn't convince him to stop punishing himself, to stop taking it out on the city's criminal element, because, I'm ashamed to say, I barely saw it as a problem. My own grief wouldn't let me see clearly how poorly he was coping."

"Master Richard tried to shake us out of it, but he was busy with his own life, his own team. And his own measure of grief for you. All three of us floundered."

"But it turned out the little Drake boy was quite the sleuth. I'd wondered why he was at your funeral by himself, I just thought perhaps he thought that was what neighbors did for each other. And then months later he tried to convince Master Richard to return home, to become Batman's partner again. When that didn't work he came to the Manor and confronted Master Bruce himself."

"'Batman needs a Robin,' he said after laying out all the evidence he had that Batman was no longer abiding by his own rules." Alfred spread his hands wide as if to indicate the scope of Tim's argument.

"What do you mean?" Jason asked, his voice rough. He'd wanted these blanks filled in for months and yet he wanted to ignore it and stay angry at the same time.

"Recklessness, abject cruelty. Permanently crippling hired goons instead of just taking them down. Nearly killing Croc when he broke his jaw. Putting himself at risk to stop a warhead that Superman could just as easily have taken care of. Master Timothy even knew that Batman wasn't speaking with Commissioner Gordon anymore. We never did discover how he'd found that out." Alfred smiled ruefully.

"What did Bruce say?" Jason asked, imaging Bruce doing that stern-but-secretly-pleased look he used to get and pulling Tim further into the Manor.

"He was furious, completely overreacted to being unmasked _and_ accused of misconduct. That was when I realized how close we were to disaster. That he could be so unsettled by a child and then hurl such vitriol at him worried me. It was like he was guarding his grief for you in a way he never did for his parents. Refusing to let go. Or, perhaps it was the same with them and he just hid it well." Alfred rubbed a hand tiredly over his face.

For a while they were quiet again. Jason opened his mouth to speak but Alfred, staring at the last chicken satay, didn't notice and beat him to it,

"Perhaps I shouldn't have come here and laid it all out like this. Perhaps we should have danced around it for a while, with polite chit chat over tea, over months. After all, I don't know what's happened to you since you've been gone and come back. But I want to know. If you want to tell me. Knowing you were out here alone…I hated every moment of it, Master Jason." His voice trembled.

A very small part of Jason wanted to storm out. Confronted with someone he cared about it occurred to him that was a relief not to have to love anybody, to have anybody to love. But here was Alfred, with countless meals, good books, car rides, grocery runs and talks between them. Who had fixed all his favorite foods for his birthdays and read Shakespeare out loud so that Jason could pick up the tone and emotion he hard a hard time gleaning from the text itself. Who had stitched him up and helped him understand Bruce and Dick and the rich kids at school. 

Jason wasn't going to be the one to turn his back on all that, not even if it hurt. He'd been hurt worse. Hurt he could deal with.

The silly ship's wheel table had equally dated, matching chairs on casters. Jason rolled his closer to Alfred's so that he could hug him. Alfred wrapped his arms around his boy, gingerly, because he suspected the thermal was hiding more wounds. Jason inhaled the spice of the cologne Alfred favored, mixed with the motor oil smell of the old jacket.

"I don't...I don't think I can come home. Yet." He said into the plaid shoulder.

"As long as you know it is your home."

They pulled apart and Jason snagged the last chicken satay and the peanut sauce. He sniffed hard before eating it happily in a few bites, washing it down with what was left of the cucumber salad.

"Although, having said that, I feel I must warn you about Master Damian," Alfred sighed.

"Yeah, what is the deal with that little cretin?" Jason demanded, chewing, "No one likes him. I mean, we always beat on creeps, but he goes all in." Feeling full and happy with Alfred's presence he more closely resembled the chatty teen he had been.

Alfred scowled,

"His 'deal' is he's Talia al Ghul's child and that harpy and her infernal father think raising a child means beating it into blind obedience to their own will and beliefs," 

Jason paused in digging into the Pad Kee Mao.

"Well, shit." He colored faintly. He was out of practice at not swearing in front of Alfred. But the older man only said,

"Quite. He's worlds away from where he was when he came to us, about a year ago. But he can be territorial. And I'm certain we haven't completely convinced him that blood isn't thicker than water," Alfred frowned darkly at the empty containers as he gathered them and placed them back in the takeout bag.

"Why is he Robin if he's such a pain? Tim didn't want the job anymore?" All Jason's curiosity could finally be satisfied.

"I'll explain that particular catastrophe after you've let me have a look at those bandages, my lad," Alfred fixed Jason with the look that meant he wouldn't brook any nonsense, "And, you can prove to me that you have full range of motion in that shoulder you were shot in."

Jason's frown lines all but disappeared as he smiled at Alfred's implacable care. He scraped what was left of the chicken into the container of rice as Alfred moved to throw the empties away, finding his way around the small kitchen like he was already familiar with it.

"And don't think we aren't going to have a talk about your lack of proper uniform."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should be wrapping this up in the next chapter. I've mentioned before that I don't love a lot of canon and the series of Batfam deaths fall under that. I'm ignoring Bruce, Dick, Stephanie, Damian, and Tim's deaths/"deaths" for the purposes of this because god DAMN is that a tired trope. I find Jason's death/resurrection a lot more compelling if it's the only one.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year later, give or take.

The family had tickets to see a Cirque du Soleil show at the arena. They'd driven in two cars: Alfred driving Tim, Damian and Cassandra from the Manor, while Dick picked up Barbara, Jason, and Stephanie in the city. At the last minute Bruce was called away on League business.

Cirque du Soleil didn't disappoint. Dick loved the creative use of stagecraft and the ways in which the acrobats used aerial silks, bungee cords and other props in lieu of traditional trapeze. Barbara's favorite act was the trampoline set while Cassandra loved the woman on the lyra hoop. Everyone agreed that they were eternally grateful that Cirque du Soleil edited any and all of their shows that traveled to Gotham: there were no clowns. Not even the modern, less caricatured versions Cirque normally featured. 

If Bruce returned while the show was still in town they all decided they'd go again so that he could see it, too.

After, they said goodnight and split up to find their cars in the enormous parking lots that surrounded the arena. Alfred took Stephanie, Tim and Jason home – Stephanie and Jason were staying the weekend at the Manor to help prep food for Tim's birthday party that Saturday. Dick took Barbara, Cassandra and Damian back into the city, they were all on duty that night. 

Dick felt a small frisson of nerves as he realized they were going to pass through the Crossroads along with the rest of the crowd heading to their cars. They'd taken a different exit out of the arena and ended up going this way. He wondered if the other three knew where they were, but said nothing. What could happen? Additionally, what could happen that they couldn't handle?

Cassandra spun through a series of piqué and chaîné turns in her sneakers on the pavement of the intersection as they crossed the street, revved up by the show. Dick and Barbara were both quiet as they followed behind, alert to the chatter of the families and couples around them, though they smiled indulgently at Cass. Damian's eye was caught by something in the center of the intersection. He thought he'd seen…

But then Cass was pulling him by the hand, motioning that she wanted to try a balance the acrobats had done. Dick had taught them all how to do partner work, balancing on each other's shoulders and hands, learning the safe way to ascend and descend. A little girl nearby gasped as Cassandra walked up Damian's braced thigh to stand on his shoulders (Alfred hated when they did this with shoes on). Together they carefully shifted their weights as Cass extended one elegant leg behind her in an arabesque. Damian smiled lopsidedly: he wouldn't have been able to support Cassandra's weight, slight as she was, before his last growth spurt. He walked smoothly away from the Crossroads, one eye on Cass above him, giving the impression of floating as she did a regal "Queen" wave to the other show-goers, who were applauding.

The Demon watched them go. Knowing that he wouldn't speak again to the Knight or this generation of his brood. Satisfied that more prey was even now approaching him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
